The Heavy Fog that Weighs You Down
by jojospn
Summary: It's January 6th and John Watson doesn't feel like celebrating. A Post Reichenbach birthday fic for the world's only consulting detective. One shot.


**A/N: An angsty little birthday fic for our favourite consulting detective. Can be taken as johnlock if you want to but not really any pairings intended. As always, all rights go to the brilliant Arthur Conan Doyle and Gatiss/Moffat. Title from "When I'm Gone" by Joey + Rory." No copyright infringement intended.**

 **The Heavy Fog That Weighs You Down**

Late morning sun filters in through faded window blinds and John slowly opens his eyes. Immediately he feels the intense pounding of his hangover induced headache, and immediately the doctor squeezes them shut. The night had been a rough one, of sitting alone at the pub throwing back whisky shots. Before that, he'd downed at least two pints of lager, and that wasn't counting what he'd had before he'd even left the bedsit.

Lestrade had called him the night before, wondering if he'd like to join him for a drink or two. John had initially refused. Though it's just the thing John truly needs, the last thing he had wanted was a night out. Though seven months have passed since Sherlock's death _,_ John still feels the intense grief overwhelm him. Everything is a potential trigger, from the sight of nicotine patches on pharmacy shelves to the gentle sounds of the violin. But while the prospect of company is far from promising, that of drowning his pain in grief most definitely is, so John agrees to meet up at one of Greg's favourite pubs. Almost immediately John regrets his decision. It's obvious that the DI is purposely trying to avoid the subject of Sherlock, forcing small talk that John barely responds to. After half an hour of watching John down his two pints and head back for his second round of shots, Lestrade has had enough. He had excused himself politely, gently suggesting that perhaps John turn in too. In the end, only Greg had left.

Now, John is most definitely paying for his night of excessive drinking. When, after a few minutes, the pounding in his skull doesn't ease off, he gingerly sits up and reaches for his mobile. The screen reads 12:14PM and John curses. He'd long since been let go at the clinic (Sarah had been more than patient after, well, _after,_ but the constant absences had eventually taken their toll) but he has missed his appointment with Ella. Not that his therapist has been helpful lately. She had insisted he continue with his blog; after all, it had helped immensely when he had first come back from overseas, had it not? John had refused. It hadn't been the posts which had helped him when he had returned to London, but Sherlock. He'd craved adventure, the thrill of the chase, the danger; and later, after his relationship with his mad flatmate had blossomed to friendship, he'd needed _him._ At first John had assumed he'd desired everything _associated_ with the detective: the cases, the adrenaline rush, "come along, John, the game is on!" But now, months after his friend's suicide, the doctor realizes that it's the small details he misses the most: sipping tea while writing his blog, Sherlock lounging on the couch beside him; complaining about the specimens in the fridge and the messes his friend had always left following one of his experiments; sharing takeaway while watching crap telly following a case.

John finally crawls out of bed and makes his way to the shower. The hot water does help to ease the pain of his headache, and he feels slightly more normal when he's finished. But the relief is short lived when he picks up the morning paper and notices the date sprawled above the first page.

January 6th.

Overwhelmed with grief, John crumples the paper and buries his face in his hands. Sherlock's birthday. Suddenly the night out makes sense. No doubt Mycroft had had his hand in that one. The elder Holmes had always had a habit of intervening in his and his brother's affairs, with no regard to whether such actions were welcome or otherwise. Always watching. No doubt he is well aware of how poorly John is dealing with Sherlock's death. The doctor is well aware that, at least this time, Mycroft's gesture had been an attempt at a kindness, a welcome distraction from the pain. All he has instead is a massive hangover.

The trill of his mobile ringing snaps John back to reality. He picks it up, reads the caller ID on the screen. Mrs. Hudson. She, of course, knows the significance of the date and is hoping a chat with her former tenant will be comforting. Instead, John lets the device head straight to voicemail. He knows he should talk to her, Sherlock is... _had_ been like a son to her. But he just can't face his former landlady, at least not yet. John may not be a brilliant observer like his late friend, but even he knows how the meeting will play out: Mrs. Hudson would serve tea and biscuits, encourage a little small talk (always wearing a kind, but this time, completely forced smile) before eventually tearing up. John will have to put on his soldier's mask, attempt to comfort when inside he is falling apart. It's selfish, of course the doctor knows it, but still...

The mobile rings again, and John considers ignoring before eventually glancing at the screen. It's Molly Hooper this time, and again the doctor sends the call to voicemail. Only this time, almost immediately after the call is disconnected, the familiar sound of a text alert is heard. Initially John ignores it, but when another message pops up less than a minute later, the doctor gives up.

 _ **Hi John, did you want to meet up for coffee?**_

 _ **It's ok if you don't want to, just thought it'd be nice to catch up :)**_

John smiles faintly despite himself. Of course Molly would want to try to cheer him up, today especially. But if he can't face Mrs. Hudson's false cheer, he most certainly will not be able to tolerate Molly's, no matter how pure her intentions. After a moment's thought, John types his reply.

 **That's really kind of you, Molly, but I think I'll just stay in. Thanks anyway for the invite!**

A minute later, Molly texts her reply and John finally turns the ringer off his mobile. He knows it isn't healthy for him to wallow in grief (self pity, Sherlock would have informed him) but he has a right to. Sherlock was more than a flatmate: he had been his best friend, his saving grace. If John had not met him when he had, there is no doubt in his mind that there would be another grave in that cemetery. This thought naturally leads him to that of his friend's own marker, and the fact that he hasn't visited Sherlock in a while. Not that he would have objected. "Sentiment," the detective would have remarked, and John once again allows a faint tug of his lips at the memory. Leave it to Sherlock Holmes to condone something as personal as visiting a loved one's grave. John glances at the window; the day is cold, but gloriously sunny. _It's not as if I'm doing anything productive. May as well get some fresh air._ He considers inviting Mrs. Hudson along for the trip, but eventually decides against it. He needs his privacy for this visit.

Mind made up, John reaches for his coat and heads out into the early January morning. He can feel the nip of the air biting his cheeks and the tip of his nose. _Damnit, I should have brought a scarf._ The thought makes John stop in his tracks as he thinks of the brilliant blue scarf his flatmate had always worn, regardless of the weather. He stands there, frozen in grief, oblivious to the other Londoners as they push pass him. _This is a horrible idea. I knew I should have stayed home._ He is just about to text Molly back, perhaps they could grab that coffee after all, when a familiar town car slows to a stop beside him. The window rolls down and a familiar voice calls from inside.

"Do come in, Dr. Watson."

John glares at the man inside, but willingly climbs inside the car. It _is_ bloody cold out, after all. The door closes beside him and John finds himself face to face with Mycroft Holmes. For once the elder Holmes has kidnapped in person (though Anthea remains at his side, ever typing furiously at her Blackberry). It must be an important matter if the British Government is doing his own dirty work. Of course, Mycroft is aware of the doctor's thoughts, and smiles wryly. "I assure you, Dr. Watson, that on today, of all days, my presence is needed. We seem to be going to the same address, and it would be quite rude of me to leave you to walk in the cold."

"So. This isn't a coincidence that you and I happen to be heading to the same place, is it Mycroft?"

"Again. Considering that today happens to be my brother's birthday, it is rather surprising that you fail to grasp the possibility. Sherlock assured me that you were intelligent considering your simple mind. Perhaps my dear brother was wrong. By all means it wouldn't be the first time."

John sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose in frustration. The headache is coming back at full force. "Can you not insult your dead brother for once? Today especially?" Mycroft visibly softens. This time there is a trace of sadness in his smile. "Of course, Dr. Watson. My apologies." The ride continues in an uncomfortable silence before at last the car eases to a stop outside the cemetery gates. "If you don't mind, Doctor, I would like to pay my respects to Sherlock in private. I should not be long, and I can arrange for the car to wait until you are finished afterwards." John nods and watches as Mycroft slowly makes his way to the quiet corner of the gardens where Sherlock Holmes is buried. As he watches the elder Holmes stand before the grave, it becomes painfully obvious to the doctor that while he has lost a friend, Mycroft has lost a brother.

|Mycroft's time at the plot is relatively brief, and a few minutes later, he returns, casually swinging his umbrella. John would have found the simple action heartless if he had not witnessed the man's body language at the burial site. Even he could recognize the slumped shoulders and quiet whispers of someone in mourning. Mycroft slowly walks towards him and, to John's surprise, gently places a gloved hand on his shoulder. "Thank you, John. I'll leave you alone. I'll be waiting to bring you home when you're finished."

John blinks, dumbfounded. Mycroft has just addressed him as John. Not Dr. Watson, but _John._ The gesture, to his surprise, warms the doctor's heart, and he finds himself nodding in acknowledgement. "Thank you, Mycroft, but I think I'll walk home."

"As you wish. Good day, Dr. Watson." Mycroft smiles and nods briefly before once more retreating into his car. John watches as it pulls into traffic before turning on his heel sharply and making his way over to Sherlock's grave. It is not surprisingly well maintained despite the winter weather. Any traces of snow have been brushed off, no doubt Mycroft's doing. A poinsettia and a few other winter bushes have been placed before the headstone, and John chuckles wryly to himself. Without a doubt Sherlock would have been annoyed by the offerings. Along with the usual plants are a few trinkets left by the few who stood by the detective, refusing to believe in his guilt and the accusations of fraud. A deerstalker knock off, teddy bears, the odd candle. "God, you would have hated this," John tells the headstone, and finds himself laughing despite himself.

For a while, John stands there in silence, staring at the stone before him. Mycroft had chosen a simple one despite his wealth and his brother's notoriety. It is plain black granite, the name _Sherlock Holmes_ etched in gold. No date of birth or death grace the marker. In all honesty, the simplicity of it is so perfectly Sherlock. Despite his high maintenance lifestyle (silken bed sheets, designer wardrobe, luxurious shampoos), the man had lived in relative simplicity. He had refused credit for his cases; Baker Street wasn't exactly Buckingham Palace. A memory of Sherlock clad only in his sheet makes John grin, the first genuine smile in months.

The smile fades as briefly as it has appeared, and John takes a tentative step towards the stone. Gently he runs his fingers upon the surface, much like he had done shortly after the funeral. "I still mean what I said," he begins. "Thank you, Sherlock." John blinks back the tears as he kneels down, hands still brushing against the smooth granite. "I miss you. I miss the cases, you playing your violin. Christ, I even miss the experiments." A familiar lump begins to form beneath his throat, and John gently leans his forehead against the marker. He begins to sob quietly. It's the first time he has really indulged in his grief; it has been either the stoic mask or the bottom of a whisky bottle. He cries for several minutes, and when at last the tears are spent, John stands dry eyed. He feels a weight being lifted from his chest, a relief he hasn't felt since shortly after meeting Sherlock at the Barts morgue. "Happy birthday, Sherlock," he says softly. As before, he turns on his heel smartly and makes his way back to the cemetery entrance. Once outside the gates, John pulls out his mobile and fires off a quick text to Molly. Perhaps a hot cup of coffee would be nice after all.


End file.
